(Once a month at minimum I’d trek from Titusville, Florida, by the Kennedy Space Center, to Sanford in the wee hours, stop at Uncle Nick’s Oyster (& Liquor Biker) Bar for a drap or seven and ’bout four or five come by with the lights off either on the bike or in the truck and coast to a stop to sneak in the side door to ready my fishing gear for dad and me to take off for a pre-sunrise fish-murdering expedition all day and past sunset and then spend all day and night Sunday doing the heavy-lifting regular monthly housecleaning chores mom could not reach and was to weak to attempt: like many, I suspect, women of her generation a full day of cleaning to prepare for The Maid or in Mom’s case the monthly Terminix pest-control man the order of the day. Dad welcomed the fishing then – and between cleans too, almost as much as his bride who found retirement a chore.)